


Fearless

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Competition, Drama, Gen, figure skating, oh no what now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-19 13:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13705188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Fred Thursday retires after losing his last shot at bringing a prodigy to the Olympics. But when a talented young skater comes along under poor management, can he say no?





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching Olympic figure skating last night started me down a dark, dark path...

Thursday’s getting on in years, and he knows it. He can no longer keep warm for a full training session in the rink, can hardly remember the days when he could get out on the ice and show the young pups how it’s done. 

’64 will be his last show. He tells Carter with full warning: after the Olympics he’ll need a new coach, a new trainer. Carter takes it better than he might have; they’ve been together since the lad was twelve, after all, Thursday bringing him along from the junior leagues to serious competition, and finally lining up his bid to the biggest table of all. 

Then there’s the fall. 

They’re alone in the rink in the last few minutes of the night’s practice session, Carter beginning to tire. Thursday can see the jump going south even as Carter launches it, see his weight tilted too far to the near side. He sees Carter go down and, in the silence of the rink, hears the bone break. 

Broken hip they tell him at the hospital. Not life-threatening, not for such a young man. But career ending. 

So in the summer of ’62, a year and a half from his final show, Thursday throws in the towel.


	2. Chapter 1

Win wants to retire outside Mile End. Everything there reminds Thursday of the past, of his own failures, of the skaters he trained who never quite made the podium, of Mickey Carter’s unfulfilled potential. Besides, she says, country air would be good for the kids. Somewhere out of the smog. 

Oxford is what she decides upon, a beautiful town that’s just the right size and distance from London. They find a nice tenement house on the outskirts of Cowley with good access to decent schools, and make the move. 

But it’s not that easy to leave the past behind.

  
***

Sam wants to go to the rink. He doesn’t have the interest or the dedication to make a career skater, but he’s always loved the ice. Thursday knows the feeling. They go together.

The family skating time is in the evening, after reserved ice time. They get there early, Sam begging tuppence off his Dad to buy candy at a neighbouring store, while Thursday goes inside to wait. 

He hears the music before he pushes past the final doors between the warmth outside and the frigidness of the rink. Tosca, an unusual choice.

Thursday steps inside the doors. And, once there, stands, mesmerized. 

There’s a young man on the ice in old skates and a tatty uniform of plain slacks and a white shirt. But he moves with a kind of intensity, a form of purely distilled life that Thursday has rarely seen. He twists and cuts through his footwork, flipping seamlessly between forwards and backwards motion, arms sweeping strongly and with purpose. 

He leads up to a triple Axel and throws himself into it, shoulders and arms held tight and confident, no need to correct the trajectory as he revolves through it and lands smoothly, left skate slicing into the ice. 

“Well, well, Fred Thursday. The rumours were true, then. Threw up the big time and moved to the sticks.”

Thursday turns slowly, recognition dawning. “Vic Kaspar,” he says, mouth dry. 

On the ice the young lad goes into a tight spin, leg raised gracefully above his head. The energy of the movement is incredible, the speed and stamina excellent. 

“Eying up my young lad?” Kaspar asks, with good humour. He’s wearing a showy leather coat and gloves, well-tailored. He looks like some kind of mobster. Always has done, Thursday considers. 

“He’s yours then, is he?” he asks Kaspar, nodding at the skater. The music swells and the young man launches into a dizzying flip, comes down cleanly and cuts a tight circle on the ice to brush past the boards with just a foot to spare. 

Kaspar gives a coy smile. “That he is. Going to bring me home gold, if he can keep out of his own head.”

“I’ve never seen him before. What’s his name?”

“Morse. His mother was Constance Moore.”

Thursday whistles. Constance Moore had won two world championships and been first in line on the Great Britain team for the ’36 games before getting pregnant and dropping out. This, then, was the result of her precipitate retirement.

“You’ve been keeping him quiet,” he says, watching as the young man finishes up his programme on his knees on the ice, head bowed. The music cuts out to be replaced by the static of a turntable needle spinning on the edge of a record. 

“He’s my ace in the hole; just found him myself up in Lincolnshire in the hands of his rummy father.”

“And you brought him down to Oxford to keep him quiet, eh?” asks Thursday, as the young man skates over to them.

“That’s right. So you’d better not go shooting your mouth off, Fred.” It’s couched as a joke, but Thursday knows better. Kaspar has a nasty temper and no moral compass to speak of; he’s not above launching a shower of shit deep enough to bury Thursday. 

“Vic?” Morse comes off the ice, stepping up onto the boards and wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. His red hair is damp at the roots, his cheeks pink with what Thursday guesses is unusual colour for his pale, freckled skin.

“Morse. This is Fred Thursday; used to train skaters back in the Smoke.”

“I know Mr Thursday. Or of him, I should say,” says Morse, with a shy smile. He holds out his hand; the fingertips are cool but his palms are warm. “You trained Mickey Carter. He had real talent; I’m sorry about his accident.”

“Me too,” says Thursday.

“Come along, Morse,” says Kaspar, putting one hand on the lad’s shoulder and handing him his blade guards with the other. “Keep your nose clean, Fred,” he says, heading off.

Sam comes in a moment later to find Thursday staring out the door after them. “Dad? Is everything okay?”

Thursday turns back to him. “Fine. Let’s lace up.”

  
***

“You should have seen him, Win,” he tells her late that night, after the kids have been put to bed with storybooks and kisses. “His raw energy. Unrefined, rough around the edges, but his potential…” He shakes his head. “And Vic Kaspar’s got him.”

“Some of his skaters have been real successes, Fred,” she reminds him over the Georgian-style dress she’s making Joan for a school recital of Pride and Prejudice. “Nathan Tayves. Ian Harding.”

“And three times as many have been broken and left abandoned by the wayside. He doesn’t give a damn about the lads; they’re nothing more than medal opportunities to him. Stepping stones for his own fame. If he has to break one – or a dozen for that matter – to get what he wants, he will.”

Win looks up. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been this animated. Maybe you should go back, find another skater. It’s not too late –” 

“I told you,” interrupts Thursday heavily. “I’m not going back.”

And that’s that.

  
***

He really does intend to keep out of it; let Kaspar have his man and mismanage him if that’s his fate – it’s none of Thursday’s business. But fate, it seems, doesn’t have the same plans.

Sam’s forgotten his scarf at the skating rink and doesn’t notice it until the morning of the next day, when he’s getting ready for school. He’s already late – as usual – and so asks Thursday to fetch it for him. Win’s busy with Joan’s costume, so he goes. 

Once again he hears the sound of skating before he enters the rink – this time it’s the snicking of blades over ice rather than the swelling tones of Puccini. He pushes through the doors, intending only to pick up Sam’s scarf and head out. 

But Morse is on the ice again, this time alone. Thursday stands by the edge of the rink watching him and then, without thought, sits down on a bench.

As he remembers, Morse has a kind of restless energy that’s deeply appealing; it lends a vivacity and an intensity to his movements that draws the eye and the imagination. His jumps are raw but powerful, fearless and chippy, as though he had something to prove. His spins are cut-glass. 

He works through a long programme without music, and then goes into practicing individual elements. The programme is poorly designed – not a fault of the skater but the choreographer – it brings down the quality of his skating. He could do better. _Deserves_ to do better. 

It’s nearly half an hour before Morse slows down into his cool-down, doing easy laps of the rink. It’s during one of these that he notices Thursday, and scratches sharply to a halt. 

“Mr Thursday,” he says, skating over to the boards. 

Thursday stands, suddenly recognizing how stiff and cold he is. “I stopped by for this,” he says, picking up Sam’s scarf. “Lost track of time.” 

“What did you think?” asks Morse, raising a hand to ghost over the curve of his ear. 

“You’ve the right stuff, lad. You’ll go far.” _With the right support_ ; he has to choke the words back. Morse isn’t his pigeon, and Kaspar has made it abundantly clear what he would think of Thursday edging in on his territory. Morse shifts his weight on the ice, tilting his head to one side.

“My mother used to talk about you,” he says, watching Thursday with shockingly blue eyes. 

“Get on with you.”

Morse smiles, ducking his head. “No, really. She said you were fearless. She always wished she could skate with that kind of bravery.”

“She was beautiful – she didn’t need bravery, she had elegance and style. Where is she now? Teaching you?”

The smile fades. “She died. Years ago, now. Tuberculosis.”

“I’m sorry, lad. As I said, she had real talent.” It makes sense, though. Morse’s skating, although almost equally talented, has none of her delicate grace. He skates as though he’s daring the world to judge him, with the reckless courage his mother prized. It’s something Thursday hasn’t seen in a long time. Something he’s just realised that he misses, misses badly. 

“Would you care for a cuppa?” he asks, on the spur of the moment. It’s not a smart move. But he wants to know more about this lad from Lincolnshire, this suddenly-discovered prodigy. 

Morse considers it for a moment. Then he nods. “Give me five minutes to cool off.”

Thursday chafes his hands. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

  
***

Five minutes later as promised, Morse comes out with a duffle bag over his shoulder. He’s wearing nearly the same clothes as his skating costume – a simple white shirt and khaki slacks with a thin square-ended tie. He looks like a library clerk or an Oxford student, not a talented athlete with a chance at the big leagues.

“When did you start skating?” asks Thursday, as they cross the street in search of somewhere to get a cup of tea. It’s barely ten, too early for a pint, although that would suit Thursday’s mood better. 

“I don’t remember. It feels like something I’ve always been doing. Mum got me started when I was young. She taught me the basics, and Dad took over when… after she was gone. He had been a trainer; not professionally, but enough to keep me going.”

“And then Vic Kaspar came along,” he says, neutrally. 

“Eventually, yes. I had given up hope of seriously competing when I met him; I’m getting too old for it, and I don’t have the money to afford a proper coach or choreographer, never mind to travel about to the nationals. Vic said he could take care of all of that, give me a chance.”

For this lad, Thursday can believe it. “That was generous of him,” is all he says. 

Morse turns to him, eyes bright and thoughtful. “I know his reputation,” he says. “A fair-weather coach, only there for you as long as you’re a success. But what choice do I have?”

They stop outside a tea shop, Thursday pausing without opening the door. “Sign on with me,” he says, out of the blue, without time for second thought or doubt. “I can do better by you. And for you. Kaspar’s got a stable of five lads, can’t give you the time or the attention you need. I can.”

Morse stands, watching him. “I thought you were retired.”

“It was always my plan to stop after ’64. Circumstances got in the way of that. But if you give me a shot, I can get you to Innsbruck.” 

“Vic would go spare.”

“It’s your career, lad. It’s your choice. If you want to think about it, that’s fine – you hardly know me –”

“I know enough to know you’re the right fit for me,” breaks in Morse with a smile. And then, more seriously, “And enough about Vic to know he won’t let me go without a fight.”

Thursday smiles. “A fight, I can handle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LuvBerTie for the catch about professional athletes in the pre-1988 Olympics. Since I know almost nothing about figure skating or the Olympics, I imagine there will be plenty of other mistakes as I steer this wayward craft along.


	3. Chapter 2

Rather than the tea shop, they go back to Thursday’s house for that cuppa. It’s only a ten minute walk from the rink – an irony Thursday didn’t realise when he bought the house, but is now thankful for. 

Win’s making sandwiches in the kitchen when they get in, slicing tomatoes on the chopping block. She looks up briefly to welcome him, then catches sight of Morse and pauses, lowering the paring knife. She wipes her hands on her apron and steps out of the kitchen, passing a hand over her hair and tucking up a loose lock. Thursday ushers Morse in.

“Morse, this is Mrs Thursday.”

Win smiles. “Pleased to meet you, love. Call me Win.”

Morse gives a shy smile. “How d’you do.” 

Thursday pushes past, squeezing Win’s shoulder as he reaches her. “We came in for a cuppa, pet. And to talk about Morse signing on with me,” he adds, with a twinge of guilt. He ought to have discussed it with her before launching himself out of retirement – this could upheave the life they’ve planned out in Oxford, a quiet old age in a picturesque town. 

To his surprise, Win’s smile broadens, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, Fred. How wonderful. Come straight on through,” she tells Morse, “I’ll put the kettle on.” She hurries away to suit action to words; Thursday directs Morse in to the dining room. 

“Have a seat.” He goes to the sideboard and fetches a pen and paper, then sits down across the table from Morse. “There’s a few things we’ll have to arrange.” He sighs. “Quite a few, actually.”

As coach, it falls to him to line up everything from Morse’s ice time to his choreography to his bids for the Europeans and then the World Championships in March. There’s not much time to get it all pulled together. He makes skeleton notes of all the things that are to be done. 

“First thing’s first; we need to get you officially signed on under me; I can take care of the paperwork, but you’ll have to sign off on it. And speak to Vic.”

Morse nods. 

“Then we’ll need to register you in the NISA competitions; we need to get you on their radar as a competitor if we’re to have any shot of making the Worlds. At this stage, that’s most likely the only way to get you on the Olympic ballot.”

“I’m already registered for the Lyons and Copenhagen competitions. Vic said we could look to the Europeans depending on my performance there.”

“Alright; that’s a good start. I’d like to take you down to London to meet some people – judges, officials. We need them to know your name. You’ve no chance at all otherwise.”

Morse nods again. 

“Finally, we’ll need to work out your routines. I have a choreographer I’ve worked with in the past – I can bring her on. I’ll draw up your schedule and leave you to book the ice time. Shouldn’t be too difficult this time of year, especially in a town like this.” 

“Alright. I arranged everything myself in Lincolnshire; I can do more if you need me to.”

“We’ll start out like this and see how we get on,” says Thursday, putting the pen down. He looks over to Morse. “You’re sure about all this? It’s a big change for you.”

“My mother never had the chance at Olympic ice. I’ll do everything I can to get there in her place. This feels right.”

“Then I’ll draw up the forms.”

  
***

They leave it that Morse will go to see Kaspar to inform him of his change in coaching, while Thursday gets on with the paperwork. Morse has ice time tomorrow; they’ll conduct the official take-over then, before starting him on his new routine.

But the next day when Thursday gets to the rink, Morse isn’t there. The ice is empty, the rink dark and silent. He takes a seat to wait, settling down in the chill of the large open space. He feels at home here; over the years, he’s spent more time on or near the ice than he has at home. He pulls out his notes and starts working through some outlines for routines. It’s a choreographer’s job to put it all together, but Thursday can get started on the technical elements.

Half an hour later, there’s still no sign of Morse. Irritated, Thursday packs up his bag and stands to go. Only then does the door swing open slowly, a shadowed figure showing through the glass. 

It’s Vic Kaspar. 

“Well, Fred. Never saw you as the type to stab me in the back,” he says, stepping into the open space beside the ice. 

“That wasn’t my intention,” replies Thursday heavily. He looks behind Kaspar but there’s no sign of Morse. No way to tell if he’s changed his mind – if Kaspar changed it for him – or if this is nothing but a grudge match between two old competitors following Thursday’s fait accompli. 

“No? Then what was?”

Thursday keeps a steady, even tone: “Giving the lad the best shot at the Olympics.”

Kaspar narrows his eyes. “So you fancy yourself a cut above me, is that it?” 

“You and I both know how you treat your lads, Vic. He deserves better.”

“How I treat them doesn’t matter – not once they sign on. They’re mine, end of story.”

“You sound like you’re collecting souls. This isn’t a deal with the devil. It’s their decision – Morse’s decision – if he wants a change of management.”

Kaspar steps forward, voice low and threatening. “If you take him from me, Fred, I’ll see you ruined. First and final.”

“You give it your best shot, Vic. I don’t frighten easy. You know that.”

“Then you’d best brace yourself.” Kaspar turns and stalks out of the rink. Thursday stands staring after him, slowly willing his fists to untense, his heart to slow from its frantic pace. 

A few minutes later when he’s shaken off the adrenaline and is finally ready to go home, the door pushes open again.

It’s Morse this time, with a cut just above his cheekbone and a nascent black eye. He gives a pained, wry smile upon seeing Thursday. “I hope you’re serious about taking me on. Because I don’t think Vic will have me back again.”

Thursday steps forward, dropping his back and motioning at Morse’s eye. “He did that?”

“Heated words were exchanged,” says Morse, blandly. “His more heated than mine.”

“More than words, from the looks of it.” He studies Morse’s face, the delicately blooming bruise, the red pin-prick of blood at the edge of the cut. “You could press charges,” he suggests. Morse shakes his head.

“I just want shot of him. He got me this far; just let it go.”

 _You’d best brace yourself_ ; Thursday hears Kaspar’s words echoing. He has no idea how the other coach intends to come at him, and a good offence is a good defense. But if Morse won’t press charges…

“We’ll talk about it later. For now, you’d best get some ice on that before it balloons. I’ll come over to see you this afternoon and we can talk about a routine. What’s your address?”

Morse gives it to him. 

“Good. I’ll see you there at two. Right?”

“Alright.”

  
***

He puts in some calls in the intervening time: to NISA to re-register as a coach and sign Morse up under his name. To Shirley Trewlove about costumes. And to Dorothea Frazil about choreography.

“You’ve been busy,” says Win when he finishes up. She hands him a new notebook. “I picked this up for you. Thought you might need it.”

“Thanks pet.” He takes it and begins transferring over his loose-leaf notes, sighing as he does so. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Vic Kaspar isn’t going to roll over and accept this. He’s already proved that to Morse.” He doesn’t elaborate; no need to upset Win. “Things could get ugly.”

“You’re the most upright man I know, Fred Thursday. If Vic thinks he can blacken your name, he should look to his own past instead. There are plenty of skeletons there,” she says, fiercely. 

“And here I thought you felt he turned out decent skaters,” he says teasingly.

“He doesn’t hold a candle to you and you know it,” she replies indignantly. 

“Good job I’m the one you married, then.” He rises to plant a kiss on her head. “I’ll be going out to see Morse after lunch, get started on the work ahead of us.”

“Your sandwiches are ready in the kitchen,” she says.

  
***

Morse lives in a tiny bedsit on the opposite side of Cowley, the kind of place that poor students and tradesmen inhabit. They would have been more comfortable at Thursday’s home, Thursday realises, but he had wanted to give Morse the reassurance of his own space, especially after his mistreatment at the hands of his former coach.

When he arrives Morse greets him at the door with a droplet of water running down his face from his bruised side; it’s from a pack of frozen peas, Thursday sees as he steps in. Morse picks it up and shoves it back in the freezer, rubbing his face with his sleeve. 

His tiny room is a mess of newspapers and books and discarded clothes. A short bookcase’s shelves are completely taken up with records, the turntable sitting atop still and silent. 

Thursday’s not sure whether he should be pleased or offended that Morse didn’t take the time to pick up before his arrival. He sits himself down in one of the two chairs in the flat and puts his notebook down on the table. 

“I’ve rung up my choreographer – Dorothea Frazil – she’ll be up next week to work with you. Until then, we can focus on your form. Best is to run through your strengths and weaknesses – what needs more work, and what doesn’t. Make sense?”

Morse nods and seats himself across the table from Thursday. 

“Then let’s get started.”

  
***

Things start to come together rapidly after that first meeting. Morse identifies Lutzes as his greatest jumping weakness – “You and everyone else, lad,” says Thursday to that, making Morse smile. His best are Axels and flips. Overall, his main difficulty lies in making extra stylistic points on elements – Morse powers his way through the programme with intensity but not grace. Bringing precision to his skating will take work.

Luckily, he and Dorothea hit it off from the get go. She designed exceptional routines for Carter; Thursday has confidence she can do the same for Morse. Morse displays an unusual interest in the music – and an unusual depth of knowledge when it comes to opera and classical music. He suggests pieces Thursday’s not familiar with, bringing a potential for freshness and innovation to the programme. 

Before he knows it, Thursday’s back in the swing of things. He finds Morse receptive to advice but occasionally prickly when it comes to disagreements over stylistic choices. He’s a good lad with a firm work ethic, but there’s a temper to him hidden under his usual willingness to please that sometimes flares up and surprises Thursday. But then, he could never skate the way he does if he didn’t have a hidden passion in his heart.

  
***

The first time Morse falls, Thursday nearly loses control.

He’s seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of falls over the course of his career – missed jumps, toe-picks caught in ice, skids on over-wet ice. Has had plenty of nasty wipeouts himself, in his youth. 

Morse skates into the Lutz in a long glide before reaching back for the jump, digging his toe-pick in the air and catapulting himself up. 

He isn’t rotating fast enough, Thursday sees immediately. Knows he won’t land the jump, not the way he’s dragging through the air. Sure enough he hits the ground over-extended and his leg gives out under him, spilling him down onto the ice. 

Thursday shoots up, heart in his mouth. 

An instant later Morse is up, continuing on again as though nothing had happened. 

Thursday stands, taking deep breaths, his hands clasped the top of the boards. Morse goes straight into a tight spin and comes out of it into a powerful double Axel which he lands perfectly.

Thursday sighs and sits down again. 

Clearly, this will take more getting used to than he thought.

  
***

Kaspar is ominously quiet as they continue with their preparations for Lyons, the first of the two international competitions Morse will skate in. Thursday wonders if he was just blowing hot air, but that’s unlike Kaspar – he rarely threatens without carrying through, witness Morse’s face.

But if he’s decided not to press matters, Thursday certainly doesn’t want to goad him into it. So he lies low in Oxford and concentrates on getting Morse set for their first competition together. Their first test.


	4. Chapter 3

“There’s McLeash, he’s another of Kaspar’s lads.”

They’re sitting together in a bus in Lyons, watching the competition file in. Most of them are booked in the same hotel and will travel together on their way to the rink across town for prelims. 

“I’ve heard of him,” says Morse. “He’s been with Vic a long time.”

Thursday nods. “Too long. Vic’s kept him as his back-up so long that he’s lost his sheen. He’ll have a tough time here.” He glances out the window and sees the next couple of men in the line for the bus. “Here’s Peter Jakes; he’s Bright’s man. He’s favoured to represent Britain in the Europeans.”

Thursday watches him step up into the bus, Reginald Bright behind him. Bright’s a bird-boned, bantam of a man; he had skated with cut-glass precision in his day, and he’s passed it on to his protégé. “He can’t match your flare, but you’ll have to step up your technique to compete with him,” Thursday tells Morse. 

Thursday has been all over the world as both a skater and a coach, so the beauty of central France mostly fails to register; his mind is firmly tuned to the upcoming competition. Morse, however, spends the trip to the rink staring out the window, watching the churches and red-roofed buildings roll by. 

The rink is post-war and spacious, with good seating and large change rooms. The skaters have been divided into flights for the morning warm-up; the first skate of the competition will start in the afternoon for the men. 

Thursday sits close to the ice with most of the other coaches, watching the skaters step out onto the rink and come to life. The transition from earth to ice brings with it the promise of speed and height unmatchable on dry land, a measure of freedom from gravity that can’t be experienced elsewhere. Morse, lanky and awkward off the ice, transforms into a creature of speed, style and exuberance on it. Thursday watches, captivated, as he launches into his warm-up. 

“Where on earth did you turn him up?” 

Thursday looks up to see Bright coming down the aisle beside him; the smaller man takes a seat at Thursday’s side, watching the ice rather than Thursday. “I thought you must have lost your wits when I saw your man in the hotel; he looks like a leggy colt. I suppose I ought to have trusted you to know your business.”

“I met him in Oxford,” answers Thursday, turning his eyes to Jakes. “He’s never been on the circuit before; we’ll see how he does.”

Jakes, as always, skates with a dour seriousness to him, movements perfect to the smallest detail, but without emotional expressiveness. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again after Mickey Carter,” says Bright, after a few minutes. 

“Didn’t expect it myself. But sometimes coaching doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels a necessity.”

“If you find the right skater,” agrees Bright.

  
***

“How’re you feeling?” Thursday asks Morse, as he comes off the ice. He fell coming out of a Lutz, but otherwise got through his warmup without issue.

“You’re the expert; how did I look?” Morse turns the question around, bright eyes watchful.

“You looked like a medalist, Morse. Most of the coaches in the building are wondering who you are and where you came from. Probably most of the skaters, too. Keep your concentration up, and you could sweep the competition.”

“Early days yet,” replies Morse, with a crooked smile.

  
***

Flight placement has been decided by season performance to date. Morse, with no figures to speak of, goes in the first of eight flights. The top 18 competitors will advance to the finals tomorrow.

Morse is an unknown on the skating landscape, and in some ways that might be in his favour with the judges. He hasn’t had the opportunity to snub any noses or make any enemies – although usually country of origin determines that at least as much as the individual skater. 

Thursday sits in the stands and watches the first two men compete. Wash-outs, the pair of them – neither will advance to tomorrow. 

And then, as the rink falls silent, Morse steps through the door and out onto the ice. 

He’s skating to the Flower Song from Lakme; he thought that it was suitable to choose something French for French ice. Thursday doubts it will mean anything to the judges, but stranger things have been known to happen. 

As Thursday watches, Morse hits the centre of the ice and stops dead. Stops moving, stops _breathing_. And then the music starts, and he comes to life. 

It truly is a kind of rebirth, a phoenix rising from the ashes. He comes alive as though for the first time, taking a first fluttering breath and raising his head to look around as though he had never seen a skating rink before, never a crowd. 

And then he _moves._

Conversation cuts out in the rink, everyone suddenly paying attention to a nobody from Lincolnshire, to a lad none of them had ever heard of before. Morse reaches up like Prometheus, and seems to grasp a fire that invigorates him. He cuts across the ice with speed and surety, working his feet with power and control – though not quite precision. He glides into the lead-up for his first jump – a triple-Axel – and launches into it as though taking flight. He spins cleanly in the air and comes down perfectly, landing it to a sudden burst of applause. 

Thursday finds himself having to remind himself to breathe.

Thursday has almost never seen a perfect programme – especially not in competition. This isn’t it; Morse loses a few points here and there for nit-picks. But he doesn’t make one serious mistake, never once falters. 

His skate finishes in a standing ovation. 

Morse will be going to the finals.

  
***

Thursday spends the rest of the day fielding questions from coaches, spectators and other skaters alike: Who is your lad? Where did he come from? Where did he train? There is general bemusement in the air that such a talent could come onto the world stage at so late a juncture.

Morse, unwilling to be the centre of attention, directs questions to Thursday and disappears into the town; he only resurfaces late that night, when Thursday had begun to worry. 

“Where on earth have you been?” asks Thursday when Morse shows up at his hotel room just after ten, none the worse for wear.

Morse appears surprised. “I went out for dinner.”

“You can’t just disappear – not in the middle of a competition. Anything could happen to you.”

Morse frowns. “Anything could happen to me anywhere. It’s never mattered before.”

“From now on it will, Morse. You have to understand – you’re starting something here. Fame, reputation, call it what you will. You’re bigger than just yourself now. That means you can’t just live with only yourself in mind.”

“What then?”

Thursday directs Morse into his room. “We’ll talk about it.”

  
***

Explaining to Morse that he’s taking his first steps to becoming famous isn’t something Thursday expected to have to do – if he’d thought about it, he would have expected that living with a two-time world champion for a mother would have taught him what it means to live in the public eye. But then, Constance Moore disappeared off the face of the map in ’36; maybe her son never saw her as famous.

Clearly he’s never given any thought to becoming famous himself. 

They start small. No disappearing without talking to Thursday. Start answering questions when they come up, rather than punting them off. Interviews and crowd presence will come later. If they get that far.

  
***

Day two dawns warm and sunny in Lyons. Not that they’ll be seeing much of the sky.

They eat a light breakfast in the hotel, then drive over once more to the rink. Today’s warm-ups will directly precede the flights, with the women competing in the afternoon. 

“Nothing too fancy,” Thursday warns Morse, as the latter prepares to go to get changed. “You’ve got a strong footing with your score from yesterday; all you need is a good clean skate today.”

Morse nods and disappears into the doorway leading to the changing rooms. 

Thursday sits down and, once again, Bright comes to take the seat next to him. They watch the men warming up in silence for a few minutes, until: “I heard an interesting piece of tattle-tale in the bar last night. Word has it that your man used to belong to Kaspar.”

Thursday bristles, but answers calmly. “He belongs to himself. But yes, he came to Oxford under Kaspar’s coaching. It was his choice to make the switch.”

“Somehow, I rather doubt that’s how Kaspar sees it,” says Bright, dryly. 

“If he thought I was behind it, then it was my eye he ought to have blacked for making the switch,” replies Thursday. 

Bright turns to look at him. “I’d watch your back if I was you. He might very well yet.”

  
***

Morse is skating in the final flight today, a testament to his performance the day before. Only one of the men in the preceding 3 flights has a chance at making it to the top 3.

Then they enter the final flight, and the powerhouses come out. The Soviets are fielding two skaters, Britain two as well, the final two coming from West Germany and Switzerland. 

Morse skates first in the flight. 

His long programme is to Holst’s Mars. Thursday considered it a bit too combative, but Morse insisted and Dorothea took his side. The result, even Thursday has to admit, is brilliant.

Once again the rink goes silent as Morse skates to the centre of the ice, turning to face the judges. He stands, staring straight forwards with his arms at his side, still as stone while the music starts. The strings strum, low and ominous, brass crescendoing. 

Morse pushes off with no apparent movement, suddenly skating forwards and coming about in a long, low swoop in time with the climax of the music. He pulls in sharply into a series of perfect spins – one of his best skills – slow then fast then slow, as the music slowly builds. Then, with the first true attack from the brass, he swerves about and throws himself into the air, rotating a clean three times before coming back down to land the Salchow. 

Many skaters – most, in fact – treat music as an accompaniment rather than a partner. Morse is one of the few who seems to weave it into his every move, his every breath. He knows every single note and rest by heart, and builds them into his performance. His jumps are timed perfectly, his spins seem to pull in the music. 

In the final minute of the performance, building up to the triple Lutz – still such a new jump to figure skating, still something to aspire to rather than live – Thursday can practically feel the audience holding its breath. So far Morse has had a near-perfect performance, to a layman’s eyes perfect.

He goes into the long curve leading up to the jump, tenses – and flutzes it. Imperfect take-off, a cheated jump. The crowd still applauds, but Thursday knows Morse’s chances of winning the competition have just plummeted – and he knows Morse knows it too. 

Still, the lad ends the programme without any further mistakes, ending with his arms held high and his head raised, eyes shining. 

It was an excellent performance, and he should be proud. With any luck, he’ll still earn a place in the top three.

  
***

One of the Soviets makes it through his entire performance with only minor faults; the second falls twice, nixing his bid. Both the West German and the Swiss men gut their way through tough performances, but fail to eke out the points necessary to make the podium.

Jakes skates last, keen and precise as always, until he falls on an attempted triple Salchow. After that he has a hard time making up further points, clearly in pain and unable to fully extend. It’s still an impressive performance – all the more so under the circumstances. 

The skaters come into the rink for the announcement of the final standings:

Sokolov; Morse; Jakes. 

Standing on the ice under the bright glare of the overhead lights, Morse looks dumbstruck. 

With luck, this moment is one he’ll get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will be clipping along at an accelerated pace to increase my odds of finishing it before my stamina for bizarre Olympic AUs runs out.


	5. Chapter 4

Morse’s victory in Lyons earns him his first medal; it also earns him articles in three British newspapers heralding the discovery of a new star. With a little more than a year to go the papers are leaning full-tilt into the run-up to the Olympics, and that means latching onto every hint and rumour of new talent. 

When Morse repeats his Lyons performance at Copenhagen two weeks later and earns himself fourth place – this time behind Peter Jakes – he earns twice the number of articles, interest beginning to hot up in the undiscovered young skater. Thursday gives two radio interviews in Morse’s place – Morse not yet ready to face the microphone – they’re just short five minute conversations, but every bit of interest counts. 

Then comes the most important letter of all: an invitation to the Europeans, to be held in Zurich. 

“You’re going to go all the way, Morse,” Thursday tells him as he hands the letter over. 

Morse takes the piece of paper gingerly, examining it as though expecting a forgery. “It’s hard to believe,” he says at last. 

“It’s your hard work that’s gotten you here,” replies Thursday. “Believe it.”

  
***

And Morse does work hard. Harder than any of the other lads Thursday has trained. He’s at the rink at all hours of the day and night – whenever he can get the time, no matter how early or late. What little income he has is earned doing jobbing work at the university – looking up citations for research papers and such; it earns him a pittance but can be done at all hours.

Sometimes he’s at the rink with Thursday, other times with Dorothea. Much of the time he practices alone, something he knows Thursday disapproves of, but refuses to stop doing.

When he and Thursday get together, they work. Morse rarely makes idle chit-chat, rarely turns his attention to anything other than tightening up his routine, eking out the precision that Thursday is so insistent he must perfect. 

He and Carter had been more than coach and skater, had been very nearly family. He and Morse are scarcely friends, for all that Thursday feels a fondness for the young man, a fondness he thinks Morse reciprocates. They rarely scrap, except when Morse is in a chippy mood, too headstrong to listen and too wound-up to relax. But it’s too early in their relationship to say there’s a true bond of trust, something they’ll need if Morse is to make it to the Olympic stage. 

Morse re-works his two routines to bring something fresh to Europeans. They will expect a big routine, and Morse doesn’t want to disappoint. He drives himself harder and harder, extending his practice hours, cutting back on sleep and down-time.

  
***

“That’s enough for tonight,” Thursday tells him one evening late in October, when Morse has been on the ice for nearly two hours straight, five in total staggered throughout the day. “You’d best go home and get your head down.”

“I can keep going,” insists Morse, standing by the boards with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s sweating but starting to shiver, losing his ability to keep his temperature up. 

“You’ve been going too long already. Come out.”

Morse’s mouth hardens, eyes flaring. “I have more to do.”

Thursday stares him down, flint-hard and unrelenting. “You won’t get it done tonight. You’re exhausted – that’s when mistakes happen. Trust me, Morse.”

For a moment, Thursday thinks Morse will argue. But then he lowers his head and steps off the ice – sullenly, but without comment. 

Thursday lets out the breath he had been holding, and sits down on a bench to wait for Morse to change.

  
***

Morse comes a long way in the four months under Thursday’s tutelage prior to the Europeans. He learns discipline and patience, although sometimes they still fall from his imperfect grasp. His jumping improves. Most of all he develops an overall seamlessness, a smooth integration of every element in his programme that is essential if he intends to compete in the big leagues.

They fly to Zurich on a Friday, the competition beginning the next day. The city is dusted in snow; surrounded by mountains it looks like a snow globe from the plane, tiny and perfect. 

They have hot chocolate in a café in the heart of the city, watching well-dressed Swiss men and women hurry for their trams and in and out of the expensive stores lining the streets. In the distance a church bell tolls the hour. 

Thursday’s German was picked up in the war; as such, even on neutral territory the memories it evokes are not pleasant ones. He feels tense and snappish sitting in the café surrounded by German-speakers, trying hard to bury his feelings for Morse’s benefit. 

To Morse, German is clearly just one of the languages of opera, found in the librettos accompanying Wagner and Mozart. He understands German better than he speaks it, but he gets by well enough to order their drinks and pay. 

They spend the afternoon walking about the old city, Morse keen to see more of the town and Thursday keen to keep him from getting too immersed in overthinking tomorrow’s competition. 

They eat dinner in the hotel that night, where Thursday orders in English.

  
***

The best skaters in Europe are here representing their countries. Morse was lucky to make it onto the British team, was lucky that Britain is suffering from a dearth of talented skaters. The post-war generation has retired, leaving a hole in its wake that is only now being filled by newer, younger athletes.

Morse skates in the middle flight for his short programme; the top 20 will advance to tomorrow’s free-style skate. He has reworked his short programme and set it to new music, Vivaldi’s Gloria. It’s an exuberant piece, full of life and energy. 

The first three flights pass by with only two notable skaters standing out. Thursday makes a few notes, but largely remains sitting stilly, waiting. 

Waiting for his lad. 

Morse’s turn finally comes, the audience falling silent after applauding the preceding skater. He cuts out to centre ice and stands there, unmoving, waiting. 

The music starts and in that same instant he leaps, pulling into a tight spin from a near stand-still. He comes out of it at speed, slicing down the ice and into his first jump in time with the music, landing a triple Axel and then launching immediately into a double after it, an echo of the first jump timed to the musical echo. His shoulders and arms are held tight but not tense, no need to correct anything as he rotates perfectly and comes down cleanly. 

Many skaters feel the first jumps of a routine set the tone – they’re the easiest to miss, and the most critical. A routine marred by a poor first jump often fails to get back on course, while a perfect pass sets tone and confidence. 

Morse positively soars out of his first jumping pass, flying across the ice with the music urging him onwards – he is indeed glorious. He cuts tightly into another spin and then goes into a brief but complex footwork session, switching between backwards and forwards as though they made no difference at all to him, as though a line were just a line. 

He comes out of the footwork into the long lead-up to the Lutz, catches his toe-pick to throw himself up in the air – and slices perfectly through the revolutions, landing with no trace of unsteadiness. 

Glorious, thinks Thursday, again. And knows the judges will as well. 

Sure enough, Morse advances to the finals in the last flight.

  
***

He’s kept his long programme from the earlier competitions – there was no time to rework both the short and the long, and both he and Thursday agreed the latter was stronger as well as being more difficult to change. With his excellent short programme score and the advances he’s made over the past months, he has a good chance.

They eat dinner that night in a zunfthaus on the river – originally the guildhall for the hatters and weavers, it overlooks the plaza where Churchill gave a speech in ’46. The inside is like the inside of a cuckoo clock, all dark wood panelling and painted tiles. 

“I never really imagined I could make it this far,” Morse tells him. “It seemed… I don’t know, an impossible dream.”

Thursday sets down his wineglass, giving a nod of acknowledgement. “It takes talent, grit and determination more than anything else. You’ve got all three in spades.”

“Just not precision.” Morse smiles. 

“You’re working at it. It will come, if you don’t give up. You’re a step away from the Worlds. After that…”

Morse looks out the window, eyes skirting the small square. “Let’s talk about it later. For now, I need to focus on tomorrow.”

“We can do that, lad.”

  
***

Medals are almost always awarded to those in the final flight. Watching the first competitors in the long programme, Thursday knows that it will be true here today. The earlier men are talented skaters, but they don’t have the essential combination of technique and showmanship, the knack of imbuing their entire routine with flare and an impression of ease. Figure skating is incredibly complex, but the best skaters make it look simple.

Today Jakes skates before Morse, gliding gracefully through a performance to Swan Lake that shows off his perfect technique. He makes it all the way through without any serious mistakes – he will be hard to beat. 

Morse comes next, the second Brit in a row, and takes his place on the ice to wait for Mars to begin. 

This skate will determine his fate – whether he can make it to the Worlds, and extend his dream to the Olympics beyond. The trick is to keep from thinking about it. And Morse, Thursday has come to learn, never stops thinking. 

Morse centres himself on the ice and waits, head held high. The music starts and still he waits, seconds ticking by, bleeding time and points. And then, like a bird suddenly launching into flight, he begins. 

Morse was right the night before to comment on his lack of precision – it’s still dogging him here, for all the improvements he’s made. But it’s hardly noticeable beneath the sheer vivacity and flare of his skating. He rips across the ice with an energy Thursday has rarely seen before, even from him. He builds speed and throws himself fearlessly into a triple Salchow, landing it easily and coming away looking ready to do it all again. He shoots past the boards and into a flip, triple then double, and comes away to cut into his footwork. 

A good skater can draw attention. An excellent skater can captivate. Thursday finds himself captivated – watching Morse’s every move, every breath as he twists himself back and forth through kicks and cuts, then into spin after spin after spin. 

He ends it with the triple Lutz, performed at the end of the programme to give him a bonus. He looks ready to fly and as he digs his skate into the ice to throw himself into the air, Thursday knows it will go perfectly. 

It does. Morse lands the jump, and with it the program. 

He’s going to the Worlds.

  
***

The sport journalists go mad. Britain suddenly has two international top-tier male skaters, something no one had predicted for Innsbruck. Both Fred and Win field calls and requests for interviews and news stories, as well as enquiries from other coaches and skaters. For the first time in Morse’s life, people are asking who he is.

Then the news comes out that he’s Constance Moore’s son, and the story explodes. He makes not only the sporting section but the front section, _New Hope Son of Old Legend._

If Morse ever thought he wouldn’t be famous, he’s just been proven wrong.


	6. Chapter 5

They have three months to prepare for the Worlds. Morse and Dorothea begin feverishly reworking Morse’s two programmes, while Thursday applies for status with Team Britain and the funding that will get them to the championship, to be held in Toronto. 

This time, Morse wants to keep his short programme but rework the long. Thursday agrees to it, with the qualifier that his major focus will be on increasing his technical precision. He’s still failing to earn full marks on many of his elements, and every point will count at the Worlds. 

What Thursday doesn’t anticipate when he makes the deal with Morse is the amount of dedication with which Morse will throw himself into practicing. If Thursday considered his routine gruelling before, it’s nothing to Morse’s new schedule. He’s on the ice for six hours a day, spending another two training with weights and endurance, and a further two hours going through his notes. He does his university work late at night or at odd hours in the day. When he sleeps, Thursday doesn’t know. 

“You’re taking this too far,” Thursday tells him one day after his ice time. Morse is panting hard, circles beginning to show under his eyes. “You need a rest.”

“I want to make it to Innsbruck – there’s no free ride.”

“I’d like you to make it in one piece,” Thursday replies. “You’re no good to anyone if you damage your health.”

“I’m fine,” replies Morse. “Really.” He heads off to change.

  
***

But he’s not fine, not really. Morse starts eating less at their shared meals, starts losing weight. His hair is always lank and unwashed when Thursday sees him, his skin becoming paler and tighter over his cheekbones. Win starts talking about having him over to dinner to feed him up, starts fretting over his appearance. Even Dorothea Frazil comments on it to Thursday, over a cigarette and a tumbler of scotch in his den.

Before Carter, Thursday might have let it go. Might have chosen to let the lad work it out on his own, let him realise that he needs to start taking care of himself to keep body and soul together. 

Since Carter, he’s learned never to take health for granted.

  
***

It comes to a head, oddly, when they’re tucked away in a pub one February evening beside a roaring fire. Even in the flames’ warm glow, Morse looks tired and run-down, his back bent and his head low. The bones of his face have become more pronounced, shadows playing over his pale skin.

“We have to have a talk, lad,” says Thursday, setting down his pint. Morse looks up from the marking chart he’s studying, face crinkling up. “You’ve taken on too much. Partly my fault – I’m the one who pushed you to perfect everything. Nothing’s ever going to be perfect, we need to aim for doable instead.”

“If I’m to have a chance,” begins Morse.

“If you’re to have a chance,” Thursday interrupts, “you have to get there first. The way you’re going, you’re going to end up on bed rest – or worse. When you’re run-down, when you’re exhausted, that’s when accidents happen. The worst kind.”

Morse flares up with a hint of his old brightness. “I won’t end up like Mickey Carter,” he says. The instant he says it Thursday can see the regret in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. 

Neither does Thursday, suddenly coldly angry. He feels frost spreading through his veins, feels himself stiffening with it even in front of the fireplace. “What would you know about him?”

“I know what everyone knows – that he broke his hip during a training session with you. That he never skated again. I’m careful – I –” 

“Carter was careful,” spits Thursday, frost igniting to flame. “A damn sight more so than you. But ice is a slippery mistress, Morse, and sooner or later she turns on all of us. If you’re weak and tired when it happens, you get hurt. If you’re unlucky when it happens, you get hurt. Hell, sometimes everything can be going your way and you still get hurt.” 

“So then –”

He forces himself to take a breath, to calm himself. “So the best way to avoid it is to take care of yourself. And that’s what you’re going to start doing, from now on. No ifs ands or buts. I want you to get eight solid hours of sleep a night, and spend no more than five hours on the ice a day, and one further hour training. We can look to more depending on how you do. You need to get your strength back if you’re to be in any kind of shape for Toronto.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” starts Morse. 

Thursday straights up, silencing him with force of will alone. “Good, because I’m not one. I’m your coach, and it’s my job to see you’re fit to compete. Or I pull the plug. That’s my prerogative, Morse. That’s part of the reason you have me.”

Silence descends upon the snug, Thursday unwavering, Morse brooding. 

“The only way you’ll get there is in one piece, lad,” says Thursday eventually. “Focus on that.”

For all his strength and stamina, sitting in the corner of the pub Morse looks frail and fragile. If he’s to make it to Innsbruck, he’ll need to overcome that. Need to start making the right choices, right here, right now.

Finally Morse sighs, closing his eyes and letting his hands fall to rest on the table. “I’ve never been one to take it easy,” he says.

“It won’t be easy, Morse. It will be doable.”

Morse opens his eyes, tilting his head to the side in a kind of tired acceptance. “I’ll try,” he says.

  
***

It takes work. Thursday has to be on him all the time, which makes the both of them tetchy. But with time and effort, Morse cuts back to a liveable routine. Starts gaining back weight and colour, starts finding his rhythm again.

Thursday has a calendar on the wall marking down the days until they leave; it starts out with months left, then weeks, then finally days. He packs his bags and arranges his notes, gets everything in order.

They’re two days to take-off when he gets a phone call from Morse. 

“I just had a call,” he says, sounding peculiar. Up-tight, defensive. “From a reporter with The Daily Mail. About you.”

Thursday blinks. “Me?”

“They wanted to know what kind of coach you were, how I found training with you. Whether I’d had any accidents, or any close calls.”

“Did they say why?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then: “He said to read the paper tomorrow.”

“Probably just some news round-up leading into the Worlds. Figures from the past and present, that sort of thing.”

“Maybe.” Morse sounds unconvinced. 

“Don’t get to worrying about it – you’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  
***

Win wakes him up early the next morning. Her face, he sees when he turns over, is pale.

“There’s a story broken,” she says. “You’ll need to get up.”

He sees the headlines the moment he enters the dining room: _COACH RESPONSIBLE FOR CRIPPLED SKATER._ There’s a picture of Mickey Carter skating in front of the boards, arms outstretched, looking young and fit – the picture comes from his last competitive skate. It’s at odds with the article below it summarizing his fall and the bone fracture, the pain and limp he now lives with. It’s reminiscent of the articles that came out after the fall, but with a new twist. An interview with Carter has produced new dirt: a claim that it was Thursday who pushed him to train into exhaustion, who was responsible for the fall. Thursday, who is bringing a new lad in his place to the Worlds. 

The article lays it out in black and white terms – Thursday’s responsibility, his callousness in accepting a new skater so soon, his lack of fitness to continue coaching. 

He sits down hard, staring at the paper. Out in the hall, the phone starts ringing. He hears Win pick up, then say curtly, “He’s not at home,” and hang up. She reappears in the doorway, looking concerned. 

“Fred?”

“It will die down,” says Thursday. “There’s not enough fuel for the fire.”

But with Morse headed to Worlds tomorrow, will it die down soon enough?

Kaspar, he thinks blackly. _Bloody Vic Kaspar_. Only he could have dug up this story and fed it to the press, just in time to crucify Thursday.

  
***

Thursday phones Morse to tell him to keep his head down – Morse sounds worried but not overwhelmed, and promises to give no interviews. He has ice time booked for the afternoon; if there are journalists there, Thursday tells him to use his best judgement in deciding whether to continue with his skate. Then he puts on his coat and heads down to London.

On London’s familiar streets it feels like there are news agents everywhere, open copies of papers displaying Mickey Carter’s haunting picture: a last flight before being forever grounded. He keeps his eyes on the pavement, focuses on getting where he’s going.

Mile End feels worn-down and gritty, houses still showing signs of the Blitz, businesses struggling to get by. Thursday follows a familiar route through the hectic, narrow streets until he comes out at a Y junction surrounded by square brick-fronted flats. The bricks are old and stained, the alleyways between them dangerously dark. 

Thursday climbs the steps to the stoop of Carter’s building and buzzes his number; he steps back to wait, his hands stuffed in his pockets against the winter chill. 

It takes nearly three minutes for Carter to make it down the stairs. Thursday can hear the thump of his feet through the front door. 

Then the door opens and Carter stands there, silhouetted against a dark hallway. 

He’s smaller than Thursday remembers, muscle atrophied away over the eight months since the accident. He’s lost the physical confidence he once had, the ability to take a stance in a room and draw attention by the simple act of his presence. There’s a void where there had been such life before. 

He physically flinches when he sees Thursday. “I tried to call,” he says, voice almost a whisper. “The line was busy. I swear, Fred, I never –”

Thursday steps forward, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re alright, lad. You’re alright. Why don’t I come in; I’m letting all the heat out.” 

Carter nods and turns, leading the way into the warren of the building’s hallways. His limp is strong, bad leg coming down heavy and uneven on the wooden floor. Before, Carter – unlike Morse – had been graceful on and off the ice, surefooted and elegant. It’s painful to see him as he is now, a shadow of his former self. 

They climb the three flights of stairs to Carter’s flat, Thursday slowing his pace to match his former protégé’s. Once they’re safely in Carter’s flat, door closed and locked behind them, Carter launches right into the story. 

“They called me last week,” he says, sliding onto a high stool beside his table. Easier than getting in and out of a low chair, Thursday knows. “Just said they were following up on athletes who had been aiming for the Worlds, and would I comment? I told them I wasn’t interested, but they said it would be to your benefit – that they wanted more information on your skaters in light of your new man.”

Thursday hums noncommittally, and Carter carries on. “Most of it was just the usual tripe – you know. Rehashing the glory days, and so on. But then at the end they started to drill into the accident. They knew more than they should have done – how hard I’d been working, how long I’d been on the ice that day. The time of night. All of it. ‘Accidents happen,’ I told them. But suddenly, that wasn’t what they wanted to hear.”

Behind him set on a specially-mounted shelf is a row of photographs and medals. _Glory days indeed_ , thinks Thursday – potential unfairly cut short. And now twisted unfairly, painfully.

“Kaspar put them onto it,” says Thursday heavily. “He’s out to ruin me. Or Morse. Or the both of us.”

“I never blamed you. I swear, Fred, you know –”

“I know,” replies Thursday, gently. “You don’t have to convince me of anything. I just wanted to know… to make sure you hadn’t soured. I wouldn’t blame you if you had. I never intended to take on another skater – it was too soon. Too unfair to you.”

Carter shakes his head. “I never wanted to be an anchor. You’re not bound to me.”

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have looked to you for your opinion before taking him on.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes; after their many years together it’s a comfortable one, despite the circumstances. 

“What’s he like?” asks Carter, finally. 

Thursday considers. “Shy. Off the ice he’s an awkward, gangly thing – no presence to speak of. He’s a devil for work, though, and smart as a whip. On the ice… he’s got what it takes to make it big. Unless this derails him.”

“If he’s as good as you say, it won’t. But here.” He reaches out onto the table and takes up a sealed envelope from on top the newspaper. “I wrote it this morning; I would’ve posted it, but you’ll get it there sooner.”

Thursday takes the letter. It’s addressed to Morse in Carter’s stiff, upright hand. Thursday tucks it into his pocket. 

“You should come by more often, Fred. Prue’d like that.”

“When this is all wrapped up, I’ll do that. But first I’ve got to see things settled.” He rises. “I can see myself out.”

  
***

Kaspar has his offices above a club, The Moonlight Rooms. With five men in his stable he rents two rooms – one for himself, and one for the rest of his entourage. The skaters are rarely in attendance; this is a place of business.

Thursday opens the door without bothering to knock. 

Kaspar is sitting behind his desk smoking a gold-filtered Sobranie cigarette. He looks up as Thursday comes in, but otherwise fails to react. 

“Fred,” he says, calmly. “How’s tricks?”

Thursday ignores the greeting. He comes right up to the table and throws down a copy of The Daily Mail, picture-up. “I don’t appreciate your doing your best to turn my lad into a press turn-coat. Carter deserves better than that, even from the likes of you.”

“All’s fair,” replies Kaspar easily, putting his cigarette down on the edge of a metal ashtray. He glances down at the paper as though seeing it for the first time. “Good snap, eh?”

“You can’t take me down by digging into Carter’s past.”

“I don’t know about that, Fred. Seems I know just where the skeletons are buried.”

“It’s a non-starter, Vic.”

Kaspar raises an eyebrow, picking up his cigarette again with delicacy and taking a drag. “Then why’s it on the front page? With your lad going to the Worlds tomorrow, it would be an awful pity if he had to pull out because his coach folded.”

“I’m not folding,” growls Thursday. 

“Then I’ll see you there.”

Thursday blinks.

“Didn’t you hear?” Kaspar shakes his head in amused disbelief. “You really have buried yourself in the mud. Vince qualified as well – gold medal performance in Edinburg. He’ll be going all the way.” 

“Then we’ll see you there. Come hell or high water.”

“From where I sit you’re awfully close to both, Fred.”

“You’re not so far off yourself.” With that final shot Thursday turns and departs, slamming the door behind him.

  
***

He takes the train back up to Oxford that afternoon and heads over to the rink. His fears were for naught; there are no reporters there. Just Morse, performing elegant pirouettes on the ice.

He skates over to the boards when he sees Thursday, stopping in a shower of ice. 

“I’d like to say it’s taken care of, but the truth of it is, we’ll have to fight it out. It could be a long row to hoe; once the press digs up some muck they love to wallow in it.”

“You can get through it.”

“I think I can. But can you? It’ll be you they look to to break me. You’re the new star.” He pulls the letter out of his pocket. “You’d better read this before you answer. Carter gave it to pass on to you; I’ve not read it.”

Morse takes the envelope and slits it open, pulls out the sheet of paper within and reads it. Then he hands it across to Thursday. 

It contains only two words: _Trust him._

“I do,” says Morse, and skates back to resume his routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of town from tomorrow until the end of the week, so the concluding chapters will have to wait for the weekend.


	7. Chapter 6

While Thursday is certain that the media furor is getting stronger rather than weaker – initially at least it will feed off itself, story spreading to multiple papers and onto the radio – fortunately it is nowhere near significant enough to make it to the global press. The second they leave the country, they leave the barrage behind them. There will be press and the views of other coaches and athletes to contend with at the Worlds, but no front-page photographs. 

In truth, Thursday’s not too worried about the other coaches. The story about Morse originally skating with Kaspar will have circulated to them, and his own reputation is solid enough that they’ll be able to connect the dots in the story. What the other skaters will say to Morse, however, he can’t predict. Can’t predict how their fledgling relationship will weather this storm.

  
***

They’re on another bus to another rink, this time in a snowstorm. Outside the windows the sky is grey and the air is white with it, tiny flakes driving past the windows in a fierce wall of snow. Thursday has his pipe lit, is smoking it reflectively.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” says Morse quietly when they’re almost to the rink.

“Toronto?”

Morse’s mouth quirks upwards and he looks out the window for an instant, the pure white of the scene outside reflected in his blue eyes. “No. Being on the circuit.”

“How did you imagine it?” he draws on the pipe, tasting the rich tobacco flavour before releasing the smoke. 

“More exciting, I suppose,” he answers, after a minute. Thursday gives him a gently disbelieving look.

“You don’t think we’ve had enough of that these past few days?”

Morse smiles wanly. “I suppose so.”

“Well if not, you’ll have more than your fill of it once the competition hots up. The Worlds are second only to the Olympics – it doesn’t get much bigger.”

The bus slows as they enter the rink car park. 

“Whatever they say, Morse, don’t let it get to you,” says Thursday quietly as around them the other men and their coaches begin to stand, taking bags down from the racks above their heads. 

Morse gives him a look of stubborn willfulness that sets Thursday’s mind at ease. “I won’t.”

  
***

They’re here for the morning for the skaters to get in some warm-up time and get used to the rink. The competition will start in the afternoon with the short programme.

Thursday sits in the stands and watches the men warm-up in flights, six men on ice at a time. It’s a hectic time, each man trying to get in the elements of his programme he needs to prepare while looking out for the other five skaters, all equally ensnared in their mental preparations. 

Morse airs out his triple-toe before turning to the Lutz; he lands one clean and puts a hand down on a second after a tricky combination with a double loop. 

Apart from funding, travelling with the British team brings with it the perks of a dedicated physician in case of accident or injury. Thursday knows Max DeBryn of old, and now the short, portly physician sits beside him, peering out at the ice through his hornrims. 

“Quite good, your man,” he says after sitting through a few minutes of skating. “He has real flare, a unique vibrancy.”

“I have high hopes of him,” agrees Thursday.

DeBryn takes off his glasses to wipe them on his knit pull-over. “What’s this I’ve heard in the news about Mickey Carter? Seems uncharacteristic from what I remember of him.”

“It was complete muck-raking,” replies Thursday, to DeBryn’s myopic eyes. “Gutter-press fishing for a story.”

“And set on him by Vic Kaspar.” 

Clearly the doctor is well abreast the latest gossip. 

DeBryn returns his glasses to his face. “One wonders how Morse will take to meeting young Vince.”

“Like oil and water the two of them, I should think,” says Thursday firmly.

Down below the skaters switch off, Morse’s flight coming off the ice to make way for the next group. Vince Kaspar passes Morse and says something that sets Morse flushing bright red, face terse and angry. He doesn’t answer and the younger Kaspar steps out onto the ice, leaving Morse alone beside the boards. 

As a new skater – or at least, a newly discovered one – he hasn’t yet had the time to form the interpersonal bonds to get him through this conflict with the Kaspars. Thursday has friendships and his reputation to rely on – Morse has nothing, and ghosts alone through the rink to the change rooms.

  
***

“They’re giving me the cold shoulder,” Morse reports over lunch. “But I think it’s more a feeling of my being an interloper than anything to do with Kaspar or you. Peter Jakes shut up one of the other men for speaking against you.”

 _A kind way of saying insulting_ , Thursday thinks. 

“They’ll come around,” he says, drinking the bland Canadian beer with a sour look on his face. 

“It makes no difference to me.”

“It ought to, lad. Never do away with a friend you could have had. One day any of these men could be a coach, or a judge, and come back to haunt you otherwise.”

Morse snorts into his lemonade.

  
***

That afternoon, Morse skates to Gloria.

It’s late for them with the time change, but Morse has never been one to be thrown off by the clock – his practice at all hours of the day and night pays dividends there. 

The earlier flights are riddled with errors and failed jumps, leaving the bar to pass ahead to the next day’s long program relatively low. With cumulative scoring, though, every point from today matters. 

Eventually, after three preceding flights, it’s Morse’s turn to skate out onto the ice. Thursday stands by the boards and watches him, tries to read his mood and thoughts from the way he holds himself. Tries to read the future in the present. 

Morse stops at centre ice, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. He’s perfectly still, the rink silent around them. Then the strings strum into action and he leaps. 

He flies through the programme, landing the triple Axel-double Axel first with the smoothness of a stone skipping across the water. Then his spins, a sit-spin to a Camel – technically and physically demanding, and therefore a big point earner – and into more jumping passes. 

Then there’s just the Lutz, Morse taking the long lead-up at speed. He rockets upwards, spinning around – and under-rotates it. Thursday winces as he comes out of it and down; he manages to keep his feet, but puts a hand down as he had in practice. It’s a small mistake, but it will cost him. In this world competition, it could mean a difference in flights. 

Morse finishes the programme and takes his bows, face stony. He knows as well as Thursday that nearly perfect might not be good enough.

“Hard luck,” says DeBryn, passing by on his way back to his seat in the back of the rink to wait for the next British skater. 

Hard luck indeed.

  
***

As Thursday predicted, Morse’s tiny mistake costs him a place in the final flight. He skates in the next-to-last instead. With Vince Kaspar.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Thursday advises him that night, before they turn in. “You’re your own force; in control of your own destiny. Focus on that.”

“Easier said than done,” replies Morse, but he doesn’t look shaken. “Do you really believe this will all blow over?”

“If you come home with a medal, that’ll be all anyone talks about. Just set your eyes on that for the time being. Leave Kaspar to me.”

“Alright,” says Morse. They head upstairs to their rooms.

  
***

Morse is skating to Danse Macabre today in his revised long programme. It’s a bit too regular for Thursday, but Dorothea’s done up a brilliant clockwork-man type choreography that suits it to a T.

Morse is looking well rested as he comes out for his six-minute warm-up prior to skating. The preceding three flights have gone better than yesterday, but the usual number of mistakes and outright failures have left the playing field clear for the last skaters to sweep it. There’s only a small lead between the fourth and fifth flights – Morse, if he can manage a perfect skate, could be on the podium. 

The six men in the flight are working through elements of their routine, each in their own headspace. Thursday has eyes only for Morse – who in turn has eyes only for the triple Lutz. He needs to land this one cleanly, that’s his only option. So far, it’s looking good. 

It continues to as the minutes advance, Morse throwing in a little bit of footwork to loosen up his muscles and a spin just to set his nerves at ease. 

As he comes backwards up the ice for his last jump of the warm-up, a motion in the corner of Thursday’s eye catches his attention. Vince Kaspar is skating towards Morse, apparently unaware of him, and in Morse’s blind spot. 

Thursday stands up. “Morse!”

Morse comes to the jump and leaps into the air. Just as, simultaneously, Kaspar does the same.

The two men collide, Kaspar coming down on top of Morse and slamming him into the ice. He scrambles up, face white, and backs up. 

Morse is lying unmoving on the ice. 

Thursday pounds around the rink to the door even as the other skaters gather around Morse, looking around uncertainly. He feels as though he’s moving through treacle, as though the ticking seconds of time are anchors weighing him down. His heart is rabbiting in his chest, pounding gut-twisting adrenaline through him as he fights to reach his skater. 

Morse still does not move.

Thursday gets to the door and scrambles out onto the ice, shoes slipping as he tries to make his way across to Morse. A Finnish skater comes over and escorts him along, steadying him. “Fetch the doctor,” Thursday tells him when they finally reach Morse. 

All around the rink in the stands people are pointing and whispering, an odd breathy sound in the huge open space, like wind through a copse of trees. Thursday kneels down beside Morse and reaches out to find his pulse. 

Morse stirs, moaning before opening his eyes and peering upwards. “Fred?” his voice is soft, nearly lost in the hubbub around them. Finally, Thursday relaxes enough to breathe. 

“Yes, lad. Lie still now – the doctor’s coming.”

“What happened?” Morse is frowning. There’s red blood at his lower lip; he must have bitten it falling. Ignoring Thursday he tries to sit up; Thursday pushes him back down. 

“You had a fall. Here’s the doctor now.” He looks up at the sound of skates scraping across the ice; another skater is bringing over the doctor. The small group around Morse makes room, and DeBryn kneels down with his black Gladstone bag. 

“Morse, do you know where you are?”

Morse swallows. Then, after a beat, “Toronto. At the rink.”

“Good. Any blurred vision?”

“No.”

“I’m going to examine your head briefly; lie still.” DeBryn suits action to words, running his hands over Morse’s skull and then down his neck. “Alright; you can sit up now.”

Morse sits. “I didn’t skate, did I?” he asks, looking up at Thursday.

“No lad. Your flight’s not gone yet.”

“Good.”

DeBryn frowns, looking at Thursday. “Did he lose consciousness?”

“Briefly, yes. Doctor?”

DeBryn looks down at Morse. “I’m sorry, Mr Morse. I can’t approve you to skate today.”

For a minute, Morse sits in silent disbelief. Then: “But I’m fine, I can skate.” He starts to get up, and is stopped by Thursday’s hand on his arm. 

“Doctor has the final word, Morse.”

“But – I don’t understand. What will happen?”

Thursday gives him a tired look. “You’ll be disqualified,” he says.

Morse stares up at him, face reddening with anger. “I can’t. I _won’t_.” He does stand now, and nearly falls as a wave of dizziness overtakes him. DeBryn catches his arm, and he pulls it sharply away. “I can skate.”

“You can land a triple Lutz like that, can you?” asks Thursday, harshly. And then, when Morse turns hurt, angry eyes on him, “I’m sorry, lad. Facts are facts. You can’t skate, not like this.”

“But… then what?” he asks, voice quiet.

“We’ll go home. And look to the Nationals later this year. If you do well enough there…” It might be enough. If the other British skaters don’t bring home medals. “Come on.” He holds his hand out for Morse. 

After a moment, Morse takes it. And, united in failure, they leave the ice together.


	8. Chapter 7

Peter Jakes comes in fourth, Vince Kaspar sixteenth. It will be difficult for Morse to make a spot on the British team to the Olympics, but not impossible. 

Morse can, and does, play the sick card to get out of interviews with the press. In the end, it’s not a bad thing – it means the interviews fall to Thursday, and Thursday is an old hand when it comes to planting stories with reporters. Especially ones who are already aware of the eddies and currents underlying the British team. 

He’s very careful. Never once does he blame Vince Kaspar for the accident – fault on both sides is the phrase he uses, and it sticks. But the press’s blazing spotlight switches from Thursday and Morse to Vic and Vince Kaspar, to the many incidents that have plagued Kaspar’s skaters over the years. And then, thanks to a carefully sown seed, attention shifts once again to the fact that Morse was briefly under Kaspar’s instruction before making the choice – with Mickey Carter’s subsequent blessing – to switch to Thursday.

When they get home, Win’s saved them a copy of the paper: _Rising Star Shot Down by Rival_ is the title, accompanied by two pictures: one of Morse looking fiery and brilliant mid-leap, the other of Vic Kaspar scowling from his place in the stands. A story of jealousy and vengeance told in two photos, each worth a thousand words. 

It’s small comfort to Morse, who will now have to work like a dog to make up the ground lost at the Worlds. But it’s something.

  
***

In a way, Morse comes out of the incident with better standing. One thing skaters will respect above all others is a determined return to the ice following injury, and Morse is nothing if not determined. He returns to the ice almost immediately, insistent that he start preparing immediately for competitions nearly a year away.

But there’s a change in him. Where before he skated with a fearlessness that defined him, a tint of trepidation has entered his movements now. He hesitates before leaping, pulling back from jumps at the last moment. 

And he starts falling. Figure skating isn’t for meek hearts; jumps take both skill and nerve to complete, and if one is lost they fail. The more Morse falls, the more nerve he loses; it’s a vicious cycle, dragging him down into a well of despair. 

“You need some time off,” Thursday says at last one morning in mid-April, skating out to stand by Morse who is sitting on the ice after a failed triple-loop. 

Morse looks up at him; there are circles under his eyes that speak of exhaustion – not just physical but mental. He’s fighting himself, at war with his indecision and fear, and it’s wearing him down. 

“What good would that do?” he asks sullenly, getting up and dusting himself off. Slivers of ice fall from his clothes, damp patches remaining. 

“You need to get out of your head. You’re no good to anyone if all you’re doing is second-guessing yourself. Take a week. Go back home, go fishing, go see a show. Do whatever you need to do to stop thinking about skating. It’s not the only thing in the world – you need to remember that.”

“What am I if not a skater?” asks Morse.

“What were you before?”

Morse frowns. “A poor son and a failed scholar.”

“What about your music? Start there.”

They skate together slowly towards the boards, Morse with his arms crossed over his chest. “Fred…”

Thursday scrapes to a stop, turning to look at him. “I mean it, Morse. Go home. Listen to your music. Find the joy you used to feel – you won’t find it out here on the ice falling over your loops.”

Morse sighs. Then, without a word, he turns and skates off the ice.

  
***

Thursday tries to heed his own advice and take the week off. He and Win go up to London to visit friends; he walks by the rivers and feeds the ducks, he reads some of the books he had bought in the initial surge of freedom that had followed his retirement after Carter’s accident. Morse calls once to ask when they should reconnect; after that, it’s radio silence.

“He’ll get through it,” Win tells him late one evening as they sit together in front of the telly. “He’s not the type to give up easily – or at all.”

“His determination could do him a world of good – or it could drag him down into despondency. Depends if he can clear his head and find himself again.”

“He will; you’ll help him.” Win’s steady reserve is comforting. She’s seen him through his own ups and downs, as well as those of the lads he’s coached. By now, he’s come to learn that she’s usually right.

Thursday sighs and leans back in his chair. “I hope so, pet.”

  
***

Thursday’s expecting their meeting on Monday to be difficult. Morse will insist he’s fine to go back on the ice, but like as not he’ll be nowhere near ready, and there will be a quarrel about it.

But when Thursday opens the door to Morse that morning, he’s shocked at the transformation. Morse is standing tall, eyes bright, mouth curved in an unusual smile. He has his equipment bag over his shoulder, containing his clothes and skates. 

“Morse,” says Thursday, surprised. He pulls the door open and stands back to let the lad through, blinking in bemusement. 

Win comes bustling down the hall and smiles at the pair of them. “You look well,” she tells Morse, his smile reflected in her face. “I’m glad.”

“What’s brought this about then?” asks Thursday.

Morse gives him an innocent look. “What’s that?”

“Your sunny disposition,” answers Thursday. 

Morse’s smile widens; it’s genuine and infectious, and Thursday finds his own mood lightening. “You’ll never guess who I met. Here, in Oxford.” He sounds shocked himself.

“Who’s that?”

“Rosalind Calloway.”

Thursday stares blankly. He looks to Win, who looks equally lost. “Who’s she when she’s at home?”

“Rosalind Calloway?” repeats Morse. “The opera singer?”

Of course. With Morse’s interests it had to be a singer or a skater. “Ah. Proper diva, is she?”

Morse shakes his head in a kind of stunned respect. “She’s astounding. One of the best singers in the world. She retired several years ago; I never expected to meet her. She’s giving a performance in a few days – Un Bel Di, from Madame Butterfly. I bought a ticket.” He sounds like a little boy who’s just been given the best present he could have imagined. Better than competing in the Worlds, better than gold at the Olympics. 

“I was thinking,” he says, looking to Thursday with shining eyes. “I could use it for my long programme. It would be perfect.”

Thursday pushes open the dining room door. “Let’s talk about it.”

  
***

In the end, Morse does start skating again that week. He’s still got a hint of uncertainty to some of his landings, but he’s lost the trepidation that was weighing him down like an anchor.

Thursday has been getting out on the ice more himself, coaching Morse through his movements directly rather than after the fact, helping him tighten up his technique. He’s come a long way since last summer but he has further to go still. Especially if he wants to beat Peter Jakes, not to mention the skaters who took the podium at the Worlds. 

Morse’s performance elements are almost entirely solid; it’s just perfecting technique to earn the full marks possible on them that matters now. Which means unrelenting, tedious practice. Thursday eases Morse into it, and after three weeks he’s back at his full schedule. 

His first test this year will be an amateur meet in Blackpool; Thursday wants to ease him back into competitive skating. After that will come Helsinki and Dublin, and finally London for the Nationals.

Thursday is starting to believe that, after all, he may still have a chance.

  
***

Morse wants to keep his best programmes for the Nationals in December and, if he makes it, the Olympics in February.

At Blackpool he reuses both Gloria and Mars, focusing on improving his performance of both the pieces. 

He’s much more technically competent than he was last fall, moving perfectly through his programmes and holding onto the much-desired smoothness of performance that ties everything together. His jumps aren’t quite as fearless as they once had been, but he’s evolved them into strong, regular elements. 

For the first time, Thursday considers that Morse’s skating has come to equal his mother’s. He’s a top-level skater now, and it shows.

He takes away the gold medal from Blackpool.

  
***

Morse’s first out-and-out victory buoys his spirits even further. His passion returns in full force, threatening to wash away some of the exacting technique he’s been labouring over. But with staunch coaching and plenty of practice, he finds it within him to balance the two. Passion on one side, precision on the other.

He steps onto the ice in Helsinki with his head held high and his back straight; when the music starts it once again brings him to life, as though here on the ice with his music echoing through the rink is the only time that he is truly free in the otherwise awkward confines of his body. 

He skates with speed and skill and, what is more, brilliance. When the music ends he stands still on the ice, breathing hard and hair damp with sweat, but smiling. 

He brings home silver from Helsinki.

  
***

Belfast is their last trial run before Nationals. Truthfully, Morse has like as not already earned himself a place there between last year’s performance and this. But to let the pressure drop is to get sloppy, and Thursday keeps pushing Morse to be his best, not to let his attention sway for a moment.

“How do you feel?” Thursday asks him before they separate – Morse to the change rooms and Thursday to the seats reserved for coaches.

Morse considers for a moment. “Confident,” he says at last, nodding once. 

Thursday claps him on the shoulder. “Good lad. You’ll do fine.”

They go their separate ways, Thursday meeting up with DeBryn in the seats by the boards. “He’s recovered well,” says the doctor, nodding at Morse’s retreating back.

“It took some time,” replies Thursday, watching Morse disappear into the change room. “But he’s come back stronger than he was.”

“I’m pleased.” 

They both know that’s not always the way of it. That a bad fall can end careers not just through physical injury but psychological. 

It’s almost an hour before Morse returns to the ice, this time in costume – suit trousers and a waistcoat. 

He looks directly at Thursday before stopping in his place on the ice and closing his eyes. Thursday knows with that one look that he’s ready for this. Ready to make the Nationals. 

Half an hour later when the competition concludes, he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really trying to speed to the finish here before I lose interest in this - one or possibly two chapters left to go.


	9. Chapter 8

The Nationals will be Morse’s first skate on home ice. It will mean more press interest, but it will also mean the potential advantage of a home-town crowd. 

“You could invite your father,” Thursday suggests one evening after practice. “I can wrangle the tickets.”

Morse’s face, until now lively and thoughtful, freezes into a tense mask. He turns to close the door to the ice behind him before speaking with his back to Thursday. “We don’t get on,” he says, as the door thumps shut. 

“He’ll still be proud of you.”

Morse shakes his head, turning back around. His face is bleak now, eyes dark. “He wrote me off as a lost cause years ago. And I him. Besides,” he straightens his shoulders with a sigh, “my step-mother wouldn’t wear it. She hates skating. Hates anything that reminds him of my mother. Including me.” He gives a humourless smile, lips tweaking upwards with no matching light in his eyes. 

Thursday looks for words, and comes up with just, “I’m sorry.”

“You and Win will be there. That’s enough.”

  
***

Thursday procures the tickets, not just for Win but for Joan and Sam. It’s been more than a year since they’ve been to a competition and he wonders whether the interest will have worn off, but when he tells them they’re going to see Morse compete they light up, Joan bursting forward to give him a hug. “He’ll win, won’t he?” she says, with a kind of coy confidence. 

“We’ll see, pet. He’ll try his hardest regardless.”

“He will,” she says. “And he’ll go to the Olympics and win gold for Britain.”

Thursday smiles. “Good to know you’ve got it all worked out.”

  
***

They take the train down to London the morning of the competition; Morse had a last skate in the early hours before the train’s departure and now looks fit and ready. He skated with Peter Jakes in Belfast, but it will be his first time seeing Vince Kaspar since Toronto; he’ll need all the composure he has to keep his head. 

Thursday’s finding the thought of facing down Vic equally challenging. They haven’t spoken since Vince floored Morse at the World’s and that may be for the best; Thursday’s not sure he could have kept his temper elsewise. 

When they arrive the flights are published on paper outside the venue and Thursday breathes a sigh of relief; Morse is in the final flight thanks to his excellent performances earlier in the year, and not with Vince Kaspar who only qualified for the second to last. 

To his surprise he watches Peter Jakes arrive, Bright in tow, and come over to shake Morse’s hand. Morse looks equally surprised, but accepts with good grace. 

“Good to see your injury didn’t get the better of you,” says Jakes, his voice carrying to where Thursday stands waiting. Bright drifts over to him, his eyes on the two young skaters.

“I’m pleased to see your man here, Thursday,” says Bright. Thursday nods. 

“And yours.”

“It’s not every man who can come back from a hit like the one he took.”

Thursday nods. “He’s got a strong head – and a stronger heart.”

“I hope it serves him well.”

  
***

Thursday sits in the seats reserved for the coaches while in the back of the rink Morse stretches and then sits, waiting on his turn. 

The first few flights go by with little of interest; more men are attempting the triple Lutz these days, but not many are succeeding in landing it. In Thursday’s opinion they would have done better not to have tried; the marks it costs them aren’t worth the chance of success. 

He’s just getting ready to get up and stretch his legs when the second to last flight comes on, and Vic Kaspar appears from the woodwork to take a seat beside him. “Fred,” he says. “Nice to see you here.”

“And you,” Thursday replies blandly, with none of the warmth he had imbued his statement to Bright with. 

They turn to watch Vince warm up. He skates cleanly but conservatively, attempting only a double loop and a double flip. He’s dressed all in black, from a silken black shirt to black tight-legged trousers and black skates. He looks, in Thursday’s opinion, like a villain from a cowboy film. 

The skaters are called off the ice, only the first in the flight remaining. Thursday sits back and waits; the short programmes drift by, one skater after another attempting more and more complex routines with varying degrees of success.

Vince’s turn comes, skating to Black Swan. He falls on the first jump and, confidence shaken, puts a hand down on the second. He may skate the next day in the long programme, but he’s no longer a serious contender. Thursday has to work to keep the smile from his face. 

All that’s left is to wait for Morse.

  
***

Morse is skating to Bach’s Cello Concerto #1; a steady, calming piece of music intended to focus attention on the overlying skill of his performance, the surfeit of talent tying all the elements together. 

His starting position is off-centre to the right; when the audience calms after the preceding competitor he skates out and takes his place, shoulders low and hands held together at his waist. 

The music starts and he swings his hip up and around, leg kicking out gracefully to swivel him in time with the cello’s mellow chords. Gentle as a flower opening he slips forth into his footwork, cutting back and forth across the ice with absolute control and the coordination to make it look easy. He makes a leap and lands to tuck directly into a sit-spin, from which he rises like the morning sun to shoot away down the rink.

His jumps are saved for the second half of the programme, when the music picks up and they can earn increased points. As the first one approaches Thursday feels himself tensing, waiting with the rest of the audience to see if Morse can hold onto the lead he’s eking out. 

Morse cuts around sharply, using the speed to launch into an edge jump with a fantastic revolution rate to it; he spins three times before coming down into a powerful, clean-cut landing. The crowd cheers, Thursday with them; beside him, Vic Kaspar looks sick. 

With the all-important first jump under his belt, Morse flies through the rest of the programme. He hurtles through his jumping passes as though he had never once had a doubt in his ability, landing each cleanly. 

When the music ends, the audience gets to its feet to applaud him. 

He earns the top mark in his flight, and in the first day’s competition.

  
***

Thursday meets Win and the kids outside the rink; both Joan and Sam give him congratulatory hugs before asking after Morse – “He’ll be out once he’s finished changing,” answers Thursday. He has no doubt the young skater will meet with the same greeting, but it’s still touching to see the shock – and then the happiness – on Morse’s face when he does. 

They go home together on the train that evening with plans to return the next day for the second half of the competition. Morse makes the top of the Sport page in several of the evening newspapers, most running an incredible shot of him mid-leap, expression intently focused. 

“You have everything you need to make this competition yours, Morse,” Thursday tells him, as he hands a copy of the paper over to Morse who takes it slowly, as though he can’t quite believe what it holds. “And tomorrow, if all goes well, you will.”

  
***

The second day of the competition dawns, and they head back down to London. Morse skates last today, the final skater after five flights. Peter Jakes is his only real competition, but over the past year Morse’s improvements to his precision and technique haven’t been met with any improvement on Jakes’ part to his spirit and vigour – the competition is Morse’s for the taking. 

Kaspar isn’t in evidence today, although Vince is skating up towards the front of the pack so doubtless he’s lurking somewhere about. Thursday sits with Bright, making the occasional note as the first flights of skaters pass by and the clock ticks on. 

Jakes is skating to a medley from West Side Story, bright and punchy. It doesn’t match his style of refinement and precision, and the disparity shows. It would have done well for Morse, on the off chance Morse would ever condescend to consider music from a Broadway musical. As it is, Jakes finds himself fighting to layer verve on top of his tight-fisted grasp on technical sophistication, and doesn’t manage it. He doesn’t miss any of his jumps, but the overall flare is missing. 

Thursday applauds with the rest while he skates off the stage, and then turns his eyes to Morse, now entering the rink. 

In the time between Jakes finishing and receiving his marks, Morse settles down into a look of fierce determination. He takes his place off centre again and stands with his head bowed and his hands behind him, waiting for the music. 

It starts with a great swell of sound; Morse rises with it, circling in a tight spin and then striking out down the ice leaning precariously backwards, arms spread for balance and beauty. He flips mid-air to come around backwards, then slices around tightly into another longer spin as the music surges, kicking out leg out and balancing the swoop of his body without any apparent effort. 

As with his short programme, he’s saved his jumping passes for the second half. He goes through his footwork and more spins and leaps while the music builds, becoming more and more impassioned. Finally, as it crescendos Morse digs his toe-pick into the ice and leaps, sailing through a perfect triple-Salchow. He lands it perfectly, timing precise as always, and goes almost immediately into the triple-Lutz double-loop combination – his hardest jump. He lands both with a look of wonderment and joy, as though there were no audience and it was just him and Puccini, alone on the ice. 

For the first time, Thursday realises he doesn’t want Morse to stop. Doesn’t want this programme to finish, doesn’t want the beauty and the perfection to end.

But it does, Morse skating to a stop and falling still as the music finishes. 

The judges take hardly a minute to award him the gold medal. And with it, a place at the Olympics.

  
***

February comes quickly. They hardly have time for any refinements to the programme, and Morse mostly spends his days pounding through it and his technical elements, landing jump after jump while Thursday watches hawk-eyed for any faults. 

At Innsbruck, the atmosphere is electric. With the Olympics now televised, what was once a centre of focused sport competition has become a theatre. The rinks are bigger, the costumes showier, the crowds more gargantuan and bringing heightened expectations of the spectacle to come. 

Thursday stands with Morse at the mouth leading to the off-ice area of the rink, looking out at the crowd. It’s clear Morse has never seen such a packed audience – to be honest, neither has Thursday. His own days of skating were on outside rinks and flooded fields, a true winter sport. The world has come a long way since then. 

“You’ll do fine, lad,” he says. Morse looks over at him. 

“You never made it here yourself. Do you regret it?”

Thursday shakes his head. “Here now, aren’t I? I couldn’t have asked for more.”

Morse smiles. “Then I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

  
***

Morse flies through qualifications, earning himself a place in the second to last flight for the short programme. 

The quality of the skaters at the Olympics is equal to that of the Worlds, where Morse failed to skate his long programme, and thus missed out on a good part of the experience. What’s different here is the pressure – especially on camera – to perform perfectly. Thursday watches several skaters he knows to be consummate professionals fail their jumps, and knows its nerves. 

There’s no place for fearful skating at the Olympics; it will earn docked marks, if it doesn’t cause a jump to fail. Here, of all places, is where Morse’s fearlessness – the one thing his mother always wished for – is needed. 

When Morse’s turn comes Thursday watches him closely as he steps out onto the ice, looking for any hint of anxiety. Seeing none, he relaxes slightly, hands rested on top of the boards.

Morse waits for the rink to quiet down before entering his starting position; when the music starts he takes off with a simple flick of his heels, cutting forward perfectly. 

He needs an unblemished programme to have a hope of a medal. Thursday finds himself standing with his heart in his throat, his spine so tight it feels as though the discs have fused together. With every movement Morse grows more confident and Thursday less so – the jumps are yet to come, and that’s where any skater, even one as good as Morse, enters uncertain territory in front of a crowd like this. 

Morse comes to his first jump, steadies himself, and tosses his body into the air as though launching a top from a string. He spins through the air and comes down perfectly, skate slicing into the ice without a waver. 

He lands the next three jumps with equal proficiency, earning himself the top mark in his flight, and the fourth-top mark overall. 

Morse advances to the final flight of the long programme.

  
***

Thursday doesn’t sleep that night; doesn’t imagine that Morse does either. He writes a letter to Win detailing Morse’s performance – although doubtless she watched it herself on the telly with the kids. By the time she receives it, the outcome of the men’s figure skating will be known and this period of anxious waiting will be past. 

Just as he’s about to turn in for the night there’s a knock on his door. Thursday stands and crosses over, housecoat on over his pyjamas. 

It’s Morse, of course, standing long and lanky in the hallway. He gives an awkward half-smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Thursday nods him in, stepping back and then closing the door behind him. 

“Times like this, it can be hard to maintain focus,” he says. 

Morse crosses over to the window, looks out on the lights of the town. Snow’s coming down, pale flakes only visible beneath street lights. “I’ve never had trouble with that,” he says, and Thursday doesn’t doubt it. He skates with a single-minded determination; it’s what’s gotten him this far. 

“You’re a lucky one, then.”

“I suppose so.” Morse reaches out to place a hand flat against the glass, watching condensation form around his palm. “Mum used to talk about it when I was little. I hardly remember; just her yearning, her wistfulness. I didn’t think it would be so… commercial,” he says, at last.

“Didn’t used to be. Used to just be us and the ice. Now there’s the crowd to contend with, and the cameras. It’s a two-headed beast: reduces us in one way, but brings in new skaters, shining stars like yourself.”

Morse turns around, blinking. “I’m not here for the celebrity.”

“I know that, lad,” says Thursday softly.

Morse goes on as though he hadn’t heard. “I’m here for her. In her place.”

“You’re more than an echo, Morse. You’re a force in and of yourself. One to be reckoned with. You remember that, and you’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  
***

Peter Jakes skates first; he’s chosen a different program, the March from the Nutcracker. As with Swan Lake, the ballet suits his style better and he guts out a superb performance that is just a little wooden. But he has the Americans to contend with and they are a force to be reckoned with – they took first and second at the Worlds, and they’re here in the final flight looking to bring home medals. 

Morse skates third from last, after the first of the Americans puts through a faultless run and earns a mark two points higher than Jakes’. 

Morse skates out and takes his place, head bowed, shoulders stilling. It’s only when the rink has gone completely still that the music starts, with its long plaintive draw on the violin. 

It occurs to Thursday how opposite this picture is to the first time he saw Morse, skating to Tosca’s _E lucevan le stele_ and its desperate misery – _I die in despair_. Now there is a true reason for his lightness and celebration, a sense of triumph and hope that drives him forward as the music swells towards the inevitable conclusion, _in secure faith I wait for him._

Morse is electric on the ice, skating with such life and intensity that the audience is on the edge of its seats, the cameras following his every movement with eagerness, soaking in the spectacle. 

He glides into his first jump, almost slowing as if to draw out the anticipation, waiting for the swell of the music, and then throws himself thoughtlessly into the air, whipping around and coming down to land it with ease and poise. 

The audience goes mad. 

Morse performs a further five jumping passes, each as perfect as the last. When he finishes Thursday is shaking with adrenaline, breathless and wordless. Morse snicks to a stop and stills; the crowd gets to its feet to applaud him and he looks up, once more with that wonderment. 

Thursday applauds along with them, sees Morse turn and catch his eye, smiling. 

Whether he wins a medal or not, he could never have skated better, and he knows it.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this was added at the same time as the preceding chapter; if you haven't read chapter 8, check it out first!

“Are you really retiring this time?” Morse asks him as they sit together in Thursday’s den over tea. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to full-time academia.”

“If you bring a tenth of the concentration to it that you brought to your skating, you’ll do fine. As for me,” Thursday shrugs. “I told you, I always planned to retire after Innsbruck. It doesn’t mean you have to.”

Morse smiles. “I kept it up all these years for Mum, to earn her what she should have had – what she sacrificed for me. Now it’s time to follow my own path.”

Thursday looks across to the newspaper cutting now hanging framed on the wall, a picture of him and Morse, Morse with the silver medal around his neck. 

“Doesn’t mean you won’t miss it,” he says, suddenly feeling a pang of something near to grief – a cleaner, sweeter pain than the one he had felt on abandoning the sport after Carter’s accident.

“Doesn’t mean you won’t either.” Morse finishes his tea and stands. “I’d best be going – my work has piled up no end while I was gone.”

He heads towards the corridor before pausing in the doorway. “If you do,” he begins, looking over his shoulder, “Miss it, I mean…” he raises his hand to tuck an unruly lock of red hair behind his ear, head cocked to the side like a little boy rather than an Olympic medalist, “You know where I am.”

Thursday does. And he knows where Morse will be when the weight of the world gets too much for him:

On the ice, where he can be truly fearless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thanks for accompanying me on this trip through the bizarre. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
